Page 95 of Our Strange Duet

“The composer?” Carlotta echoed, fear and fury warring upon her face. “That beast?”

Erik. Erik had written this. Erik had cast me.

“ ‘Artistic choices,’ ” Ubaldo minced, waving his copy of the score in the air. “Can you really call this gibberish art?”

Your chains are still mine. You will sing for me.

“No,” I declared, shaking my head. “I’m not going to sing this. Give the role to Carlotta. I don’t want any part in this plot. I’m done.”

“You’re backing out?” Carlotta’s eyes flashed across everyone gathered in the room. “You all heard her say it!”

“Miss Daaé, surely you don’t mean that,” Monsieur Firmin sputtered as his face took on a ghastly shade of green.

“You have a duty,” Monsieur André said. “Dash it all! Think of your contract. Think of your responsibilities!”

“No contract in the world could make me sing this.” I crossed to Raoul, feeling tears begin to well in my eyes. “They can’t force me to do this, can they?”

Raoul looked stricken. He drew me near, creating a safe space for us. “Of course not. You’ve no obligation to them,” he said. “They can’t make you do anything,” he added, shooting daggers toward the managers.

“Messieurs?”

Everyone whipped around to find Madame Giry standing in the office doorway, holding out a white envelope. I noticed the way she studiously avoided my stare.

“Another note,” she announced.

Everyone groaned.

Monsieur André waved a careless hand toward her. “Just go on and read it.”

Before she moved to comply, Madame Giry glanced at me. Holding my gaze with an inscrutable look, she slipped her thumb under the envelope’s flap and broke the heavy wax seal. Erik’s letter was several pages thick.

“Fondest greetings to you all,” she began, and it annoyed me how strong and clear her voice was.

Every part of me was shaking.

“A few instructions just before rehearsals start.”

Monsieur Firmin let out a snort of derision.

“Carlotta, though blessedly relegated to a much-diminished role, must be taught to act. Her normal trick of strutting round the stage will no longer suffice.”

The soprano let out a strangled sound, ready to defend herself, but Madame Giry continued on, without allowing for comments.

“Our Don Juan must attempt to lose some weight.” Here, she did pause, to offer Ubaldo a sympathetic expression. “It’s not healthy in a man of Piangi’s age.”

From his chair, Ubaldo sniffed, even as he sucked in a deep breath, attempting to make himself look smaller.

She whipped toward the managers next. They’d returned to their desks and stood shoulder to shoulder, as if about to march into war. Madame Giry’s already sharp figure stiffened, preparing for the blow to come.

“And my managers must learn that their place is in an office, not the arts.”

Monsieur Firmin exploded, striking the desktop with a balled fist. “Damn him to hell—who is this man?” He charged at the ballet mistress with unexpected viciousness. “You know something! I know you do!”

She startled out of his path. “Please, monsieur, I know nothing!”

In her haste to get away, a page of Erik’s letter escaped the stack and fell to the Persian rug. I crossed over to grab it, but Raoul beat me to it, swooping in like a diving falcon.

His eyes darted back and forth, reading silently. I could only guess at the terrible things Erik must have written. When he was finished, he lowered the note and rubbed his eyes. His lips pressed together in a tight line, and I noticed the way his nostrils flared as he fought back anger.